


dark roads can lead home

by loveindirtytrenchcoats



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (((Steve Rogers voice))) Language, A Character Study by loose definition, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Michelle Jones, Blood and Injury, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, He Gets Many, Hurt, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, I just wanted to hurt Peter and it became This, Infinity War Whom?, Injury, MJ Gets Shit Done and I Would Die For Her, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter and MJ want to hold hands so much i'm projecting and it's embarrassing, Peter gets hurt what a Surprise™, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Violence, Whether I mention it in this fic or not Peter Parker is bi as FUCK jsyk, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-06-27 03:39:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15677277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveindirtytrenchcoats/pseuds/loveindirtytrenchcoats
Summary: He saw Mr Stark’s eyes widen, his mouth open in a silent scream, before he felt the pain.A new bad guy, armed with technology capable of suppressing Spider-Man's powers, appears on the streets of Queens. Peter doesn't realise how much danger he's in until it's too late.Tony Stark has no idea how he got here, mentoring a super-teenager he's not remotely related to, May wants some peace and stability for her and her nephew, Ned thinks this part of being Spider-Man isway less so not cool, and MJ just wants to keep holding Peter's hand. Peter loves his weird little family, and really,reallylikes his healing factor... when it works.OR; Tony does a lot of watching other people hold the Spider-Kid, + a few times he holds Peter too (and Peter holds him back).





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a prologue of sorts, so bear with me, the style won't be like this throughout - and bits that don't make much sense here will be explained in later chapters.

 

Sometimes Peter wishes he could see the ocean more often.

He can remember being small, holding his mom’s hand on a windy day on the beach. Rain had threatened their holiday, but Parkers were nothing if not resilient – his dad wrapped him in a waterproof coat, and they walked, and walked, along winding coastal paths and down on to wet, grey sand.

Peter can remember the cold front that came in from the sea biting at his fingertips and face, in his lungs, bitter and upsetting for someone so young. He remembers almost crying – but he hadn’t because his mom’s hand was warm, and her smile as she looked into the horizon was full and thrilled. They stood together, just watching, and laughing as his dad threw stones into the waves.

At some point in his memory, his dad disappeared for a little while – Peter can’t remember where he’d gone or why, but in the reel of images in his head he is briefly absent. Not long after, his mom went away too, probably to help his dad with something, probably only metres away, but Peter had been a _child_. Any distance from his parents felt too great.

Peter remembers standing on a beach, sand in his socks, staring at the ocean, unable to stop looking at the water. He remembers what it felt like the moment his mom let go of his hand – the moment he was suddenly _alone_.

The roar of the waves was loud, the white foam lapped at the sand as if trying to claw its way inland, and the great, wide, _deep_ expanse of the ocean was stretched out before him. The size of it had terrified him – even his parents, who always seemed so tall, were overshadowed by the sea’s enormity. He had nothing to hold on to in the face of it, nothing to rely on except for his own legs.

For the first time in his life, Peter had suddenly and unexpectedly become aware of his own smallness. He knew, looking out at the great power of the ocean, that he could be swept away by it in an instant. He was so tiny compared to the uneasy blue that stretched all the way to the horizon and beyond, so weak next to the distressed, troubled water. He had known that, yet he hadn’t been frightened of its strength – because he was still standing despite it, and something about the movement of the storm-fuelled waves was _inviting_. Something inside him made him want to wade out into it.

He doesn’t remember how they got back to their hotel that day, or the drive home, or much of his parents’ voices.

But he does remember how it felt to stand in front of something unstoppable, with absolutely nothing to hold on to.

Sometimes Peter dreams of water; sucking him deep down into a river or beating against his frozen cheeks, or sliding past his lips and flooding his lungs. It doesn’t always feel terrifying. Sometimes it feels _enticing_ again, just like that day on the grey sand.

He doesn’t tell anyone that.

He tells May he’d like to go to the beach, and she hums in agreement, eyes closed as she recalls a hot holiday away with Ben where the sky was baby blue and the sand was white and the water had been still and crystal clear. Peter smiles, and doesn’t say that he didn’t mean it like that, that he wants to see the ocean _angry_ again, on a wet and dark day. Instead, he hugs her and says a soft goodnight.

The next day, as he struggles to grasp what is happening to him, to even _think_ –

_It hurts–_

Peter remembers having nothing to hold on to.

He can see Mr Stark, something terrifying – terri _fied_ – in his eyes, but he can’t reach him. He can’t move.

Peter remembers feeling small.

 _Cold_ –

Peter remembers wanting to be dragged out to sea.

 _Oh god, there’s so much_ –

He can’t breathe, there’s something in his chest, something wet and he’s drowning and he’s scared, he’s _scared_ –

Then Mr Stark is there, and Peter has something to hold on to. He can see blue; bright, light blue, not like the sea, but still _blue_ , and he thinks about the pull of the water, and it’s too strong.

Perhaps his dreams meant something. Perhaps it was always meant to be like drowning.

But Peter has something to hold this time: a hand in his, a voice he knows better than his long-dead parents’, and it feels easy.

_It’s okay, I- I’ve got you Pete, I’ve got you–_

He lets the dark, deep water take him.

 

 

 

Tony couldn’t get to Peter, couldn’t even speak to him. He needed to get to him.

 _Process ongoing_ , FRIDAY said.

He waited. He waited and tried not to think of how fucking useless he was, standing there, _watching_ – watching the kid get―

 _Breathe_ , FRIDAY said.

He felt like he was drowning.

Even when Peter was in his arms, he felt like all the oxygen had upped and left the planet. Tony knew the familiar, crushing pressure of anxiety luring him away from reality, away from what he was living. It tugged at his mind, trying to drag him away from the weight of any anchor he managed to find. He could barely focus, barely keep himself grounded.

But he could hold Peter, who needed someone with him – who _Tony_ needed, _goddamn it_ – until help came. The kid’s heavy limbs kept him tied to the earth. He couldn’t panic now.

So he held Peter’s hand, even though it was covered in blood. He touched Peter’s face, just for a moment, as they both struggled to breathe. He held Peter’s gaze until his eyes closed.

He held Peter together when Peter didn’t heal, lying in the middle of a street in Queens, people watching and filming. He held Peter’s head to his chest, curled over him where he lay still and silent.

And when help arrived, when Peter was pulled away and his arms were empty and no longer weighed down, Tony drifted, lost at sea.

 

 

 

_Mr Stark?_

_Yeah, kid?_

_Can we g-go — to the beach s-sometime?_

_Wherever you want, Pete. Wanna take May, and your friends too? I bet Pepper would come, she..._

_Peter?_

_I’m scared, I— I need something to hold on to ―_

_Please don’t let go, please, please — please I need ― I need_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write some whump, but then I got lots of feelings about MJ/Peter, and Peter having underlying mental health issues, and Tony and May dealing with our Sticky Boy being Too Good™, and it became a thing. 
> 
> Promise the rest of the work will be less vague and have much more MJ and Ned and May bc i love them all ♥ Prepare for some angsty shit my dudes


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they met in the middle, something unexpected happened.
> 
> Peter got hit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working title: I Yeet Pete Down The Street
> 
> I wrote this in fragments that I merged together so I hope it all makes sense. I've re-read it like 10 times but it's hard to tell as the author. I made the bad guy up myself, he's pretty lame but I just needed a Peter Beater. 
> 
> Violence and Blood in this one (ur welcome).

 

The evening was warm, Queens lit up from inside and out. Peter watched the last trails of orange sunlight disappear into a streetlight-glowing night sky.

“God, I’d kill to be in the Caribbean right now,” May said with a tired exhale, opening her eyes.

Peter smiled. “Me too.”

May watched her nephew get up from the sofa, padding over to hug her where she sat, his curly hair tickling at her temple where their heads touched.

“Night, May,” he said quietly, pulling away.

“Sleep well,” she replied, planting a quick kiss on his cheek.

His bedroom door clicked softly as it closed behind him. Peter thought about deep, dark water in the long moments before he fell asleep.

 

 

Everything about the next day had been normal – Peter had gotten up just in time to have a one minute breakfast, given May a fast hug, gone to school, texted Ned during class (even though they were literally sat next to each other), took _another_ biology test, met with the Decathlon team, caught MJ after practice for a few hasty kisses, grabbed a sandwich from Delmar’s, sent a reply to Mr Stark’s last text, and got suited up for patrol.

He’d helped another old woman with directions, left an apology letter on a car windscreen that he’d accidentally cracked during a fight, webbed up a guy who’d stolen a load of corn cobs (for some reason), and dealt with the now almost-regular appearance of people who were obsessed with Spider-Man – and not in the good way. Today’s particular brand of weird was a man wearing a lab coat and wellington boots (for some reason), yelling that he needed to study Spider-Man, “for the greater good”. He’d decided to take several people hostage inside an ice-cream parlour (Peter’s life was becoming a series of _for some reasons_ ), attempting to negotiate a hostage-for-Spider-Man trade despite having zero weapons nor any actual fighting chance if he was confronted by the hero.

Well. As normal as a day could be for a teenage superhero vigilante, anyway.

It took fifteen minutes or so to get the guy dealt with, only taking so long because Peter was wary of any kind of fight where civilians could become _collateral damage_. He’d learnt over time that it didn’t take much for the tables to turn – so when hostages were involved, it was always better to play it safe. He’d just finished webbing up the guy’s hands when Karen spoke up.

_'Peter, police are getting calls about a man causing some disturbance a few blocks away from your home neighbourhood.'_

She brought up a live feed on Peter’s Heads-Up Display, tucked in one corner so it didn’t block his view, of a mostly-unassuming figure walking down a wide road, tipping up cars and generally knocking things over. The image wasn’t very clear, obviously being filmed from a height and quite a distance away, but the man didn’t seem to be doing too much damage.

“Is he hurting anybody?” Peter asked as he gently directed a hostage towards the cops.

_'He doesn’t appear to be. For now.'_

“For now,” Peter repeated quietly, heading back inside.

He stayed until the dude who was obsessed with him was handed over to the police, changed his web fluid cartridges, then – without needing directions from his AI – started swinging towards the action.

The sight that greeted him wasn’t much different from what Karen had been able to show him – vehicles overturned, bits of concrete and a few trees strewn across the road. No civilians were close by, though Peter could still see people further along the road running away.

The man was throwing his fist into the roof of a car when Peter landed in the street, the momentum of his last web-swing carrying him forward into a walk. The roof of the car dented significantly under the guy’s hand, folding into itself like a crushed aluminium can, and Peter made a few quick decisions about how to approach, knowing more than just strong muscles were needed to do that to solid metal.

As soon as his feet touched concrete, the man stilled, straightened up, and turned to face Peter, walking slowly out into the open road then coming to a stop as soon as his view of Spider-Man was uninterrupted.

Peter could see short brown hair on show at the back of the man’s head, but his whole face was covered by a white mask, the material glossy like plastic – that had absolutely no features. No curved shapes or fine marks defined a nose or mouth, and where eyes should be, instead there were only two big, softly-glowing white circles, lit up as if two flashlights were being held behind the surface.

Both of the guy’s hands and forearms were covered in a layer of pale, shining metal (' _vibranium'_ , Karen supplied), and while one hand was only made into a more glorified fist, the other hand’s fingers were more like long, knife-like claws, tapering out from the knuckle to a sharp point, the inside edges one long blade.

Apart from that, he was wearing pretty ordinary clothes – just a long-sleeved black t-shirt and dark blue jeans with a pair of brown boots. _Bold_ , Peter noted, _not to have any kind of armour_.

“Sorry I’m late,” Peter said, jogging onto the scene, “I was tying up this guy who thought he was some kind of bug, arachnid, Spider-Man _expert_ and he wanted to… take me to his lab and study me or something. Pretty weird. I think he tried to make his own webs, because he went to tie a couple of people up with it to get my attention, but it was about the consistency of silly string, so. That didn’t end very well.”

Peter was used to _bad guys_ interrupting his rambling by now. He waved a hand in dismissal.

“So that was a whole thing. Anyway! I’m here now, so if you could stop doing… whatever it is you’re doing, I was thinking we could actually just skip the whole ‘ _fight in the middle of Queens_ ’, ‘ _Spider-Man keeps peace and delivers justice for the people once again_ ’ thing. Thoughts?”

The man didn’t reply – didn’t even move. Silence stretched between them.

Peter put his hands on his hips.

“Guess that’s a no, then,” he sighed, then muttered to himself as he started moving towards the man again, “Why do they _never_ want to hand themselves in?”

Karen had the decency not to reply.

The man started walking, hands raised – ready to attack.

Peter shot a web at the brick wall of an apartment a few stories up, pulling himself forward and swinging towards mask-man, landing a solid punch across his face. The guy recoiled, head slapped sideways, but was quick to recover.

Peter made more mental notes.

“Karen, do we know this dude?”

_'I’ve looked, but there are no previous police or criminal records for someone with this person’s appearance.'_

“New guy, okay,” Peter said, swinging across the street again, hitting the man as he went by. “He super?”

_'He doesn’t appear to be enhanced. His weapons are likely powerful, though – they contain alien as well as earth technology.'_

“ _Man_ ,” Peter complained, “Toomes is in jail and he’s _still_ kicking my ass.”

Quick to recover from the blow that had sent him to the ground, the man started striding towards Peter, Peter following his lead. But when they met in the middle, something unexpected happened.

Peter got hit.

He landed a few kicks and punches across the guy’s chest and face, sending him sprawling a couple of times. But when he went to use a web to pull himself away from the fight and regain some momentum in his attack, something solid and strong smacked him in the forehead. Peter found himself bringing his arms up to protect his head as well as he could as he was sent rolling violently across the tarmac, the shock of being punched so hard hurting worse than the actual physical pain of the blow.

He was back on his feet in a split-second, looking back to see mask-man standing still in the middle of the road again.

“Okay, _mean_ left hook – those hands are _awesome_ ,” Peter admitted, rolling his shoulders and clenching his fists. “Do you box? Because I know this guy who does, he’s _amazing_ , super grumpy, but if you need some tips—”

_'Peter, a signal has just been sent out from the small communications device attached to the man’s belt.'_

Peter’s eyes darted to where the guy’s hand rested loosely on a box with several buttons and a tiny screen that was, as Karen pointed out, clipped onto his belt.

              _'Some kind of perimeter is being created.'_

“What do you mean?” Peter asked, immediately much more worried about what this guy could do than he had been before.

 _'Look up.'_ Karen said, highlighting on the HUD something _rippling_ behind nearby buildings.

Peter stopped moving.

An almost-transparent layer of _something_ was crawling up through the air towards the sky, rapidly forming into a kind of dome that enclosed most of the block they were in.

Peter watched as the last edges met overhead, the sounds of Queens’ traffic and _life_ abruptly cut off. The quiet was thick, like wearing headphones with no music playing. Plunged into stuffy silence, walled-in inside what looked like thin glass, Peter’s evening suddenly got a _lot_ more interesting.

“Karen, what _is_ that stuff?” Peter asked, wanting to get closer but also not willing to take his eyes off the man.

_'It appears to be some kind of force-field, assembled from a reinforced plastic and metal compound using nanotechnology.'_

“That is _so_ cool,” Peter said, admiring the tech despite its misuse.

_'I believe you will be unable to pass through it, nor will anyone from outside be able to get in.'_

“ _Less_ cool,” Peter muttered, the words loud in the oppressive silence that surrounded him. “Great – trapped with a bad guy in a giant upside-down bowl. Kinda know how actual spiders feel now.”

He looked at the bank and shops and apartment buildings that lined the street.

“Are there any people stuck in here too?”

_'Police evacuated the entire area within ten minutes of this man’s arrival. There are no life forms within the force-field.'_

“So just me,” Peter said, looking back to the figure standing motionless in the middle of the road. “Wanna bet on that being a coincidence?”

              _'I believe I would lose. Based on eyewitness footage and current police radio, it appears he caused some destruction and disturbance in the minutes before you arrived, but no casualties or even minor injuries have been reported.'_

“Well this is just getting better and better,” Peter mumbled as he began walking, taking purposeful steps and pulling back his shoulders to seem at least a bit more threatening.

The guy didn’t so much as twitch.

“Who are you?” Peter demanded, stepping closer.

The man’s blank mask and glowing eyes stared back, unmoving.

“My name is Murk.”

The robotic, processed voice was unnerving, but nothing Peter hadn’t dealt with before from people who wanted to maintain absolute anonymity.

“Why are you doing this?” Peter asked, genuinely.

Sometimes, if he could just get a clue as to why someone was breaking the law, he could persuade them to do otherwise, or at least appeal to their humanity to not harm anyone. Something about this guy said he wouldn’t be too bothered by Peter’s olive branch.

“I have no personal reason for harming you, _Spider-Man_ ” the inhuman voice said. “I’m a weapon for hire.”

Peter’s nerves spiked, but he didn’t let it show.

“ _Murk the Merc_!” he said merrily, subtly tapping his middle finger to his palm in a short rhythm.

_'Taser Web activated.'_

“Kinda lame name,” Peter said, and – without any further warning – shot a series of taser-webs at the man, one hitting his masked face, sparks flying off wherever they landed, the man twitching from the shocks. “What does it even mean?”

Murk said nothing, again, ripping off the webs in quick swipes of his clawed hand, then looked back at Peter.

“You’ll see. Or rather… _you won’t_.”

Before Peter could respond, in total contradiction to his previous fighting style, the man jumped and started running towards him _fast_ , managing to punch Peter in the centre of his chest with his metal fist.

Peter flew backwards, unable to catch himself before going back-first through the wall of a shop, landing _hard_ amongst a shelf of toiletries. He could hear footsteps coming towards him, but it took a few seconds for his brain to catch up with what had just happened. His chest and back _hurt_.

Clambering slightly awkwardly back to his feet, Peter let Murk approach him.

“My girlfriend would kill me if she heard me say this,” Peter said, “but you seem pretty moody, dude.” He pulled out a cardboard box from behind his back, holding it out. “Tampon?“

Murk let out a humourless laugh, smacking the box out of Peter’s hand, wrapped tampons raining down on them. Peter shoved him away with a yell, alarmed when he saw the guy had only been pushed back a few metres. It was enough for him to get out of the store, though, jumping over Murk’s head and aiming for the road.

He totally fudged the landing.

Toppling forward from the power behind the leap, Peter tried to think of the last time his equilibrium had been that off – ever since the bite he’d been able to balance on even the smallest surfaces perfectly. First the getting hit, then the barely effective shove, now this total lack of equi—

 _Pain_ , loud and overwhelming, cracked him over the back of his head.

Black exploded across Peter’s vision, and by the time he could see the tarmac again, he was on his knees. He put a hand out to catch himself, scraping his palm, as he tried to focus on _not falling over_.

_'Peter, your heart rate, respiratory rate, and blood pressure are significantly raised, and you’ve sustained force injuries to your abdomen and head. Your symptoms correspond with those of someone in severe pain.'_

Peter cried out as his arm was twisted behind his back, and again as Murk’s metal fist came down on the back of his neck, dropping him face-first on to the concrete.

_'Are you in pain, Peter?'_

“Oh man-“ Peter gasped, wheezing in a breath, “we have got to – have a talk – about _timing_.”

_'Of course, Peter. What is it about my timing you wish to—?'_

“Not now!” Peter yelled, breaking free of Murk’s grasp and rolling quickly to the side, to avoid the boot that smashed down on the concrete exactly where his head had just been.

_'Would you like to schedule a time?'_

“Kinda proving my point here, Karen!” he shouted, scrambling backwards on all fours to avoid more pummelling kicks. “Sometime tomorrow!”

_'Sure thing.'_

“Call it the _Captain Obvious Amendment_.” Peter said, watching the name come up on his HUD then fade off to the side. Behind each letter he could see Murk stalking towards him like some kind of predator, getting closer and closer every second, his eyes focused and cruel. “And―”

Peter’s back was suddenly pressed against an abandoned car, unable to move any further away. Murk took advantage of his moment of hesitation and threw a punch. Peter saw the fist come towards his face then a flash of black as his head bounced to the side, boxing his ear against the car, denting the metal where his skull made contact. A low-grade ringing started in his ears, and before he could make sense of anything again, another burst of pain erupted in his side.

Peter heard something crack.

Acting on instinct, he shot a web out into space – the moment he felt it connect with something, the line growing taut, Peter _pulled_.

He dragged himself away from the car and Murk, hitting the ground a few times on the way and causing more piercing agony to shoot through his body. Karen was a muffled hum of noise in the background as Peter tried to focus on getting away, getting far away from this man who could _hurt_ him, who _might be able to kill him_ -

He came to a stop outside the entrance of a bodega, crawling behind a flower stand that had managed to stay upright throughout the chaos, and tried to catch his breath. Everything fell silent, no crashing or stomping from Murk, just unnerving quiet. Peter had no idea where the other man was, or what he was doing.

_'I’m trying to get through to Tony Stark but…'_

_'…some difficulties with sig…'_

“Yes,” Peter gasped, and Karen fell silent. “ _Yes_ , I’m – in pain.”

_'You’ve sustained multiple injuries. Three of your ribs are cracked, you have a small contusion on the back of your head, and I’m detecting minor internal bleeding.'_

Peter’s heart thumped loudly in his ears and his fingers lost sensation, _fear_ suddenly coursing through his veins – something he hadn’t truly felt since clinging on to the side of an invisible plane, on a collision course headed for Coney Island.

“How is this happening?!” he whispered, trying to think of _anything_ that could be putting him at a disadvantage.

_'By cross-comparing this man’s successful hits with those of other opponents you’ve faced, you should barely be affected by his fighting technique and comparably lesser strength.'_

“So _why_?”

There was a long pause.

_'I’m not quite sure.'_

Nothing prepared Peter for the rack of flowers being ripped away from behind him. No warning, _no spidey-sense_.  He turned just in time to not only feel but _see_ the claw that grabbed the front of his suit, tossing him down the street again.

“Really not very chatty, are you?” Peter said, flipping the right way up and getting back on his feet, slower than usual. “Kind of… all bite and no bark?”

As predicted, the guy didn’t respond.

Karen, however, did – Peter’s Heads-Up was suddenly flooded with all kinds of equations and red-lit warnings.

_'Peter the composition of elements in the atmosphere has significantly changed – I’m not sure why I’ve only just noticed. Some kind of gas has entered into the air, liquid vapour percentage is higher, oxygen reduced, but my―'_

Peter tried not to panic over his suit’s AI struggling to function.

_'—ntify the compound.'_

“The force-field – Karen,“ he realised, “you said nothing can get in or out!”

_'That’s correct. I believe Murk has built it not only to keep you inside and others out, but― — —‘s created a controlled environment.'_

“Is it dangerous?”

_'I don’t know.'_

“Okay,” Peter breathed, “okay, okay, trapped in a dome, alone, inhaling unknown and possibly dangerous gases, fighting a guy who someone hired to target me, who can apparently hurt me and _maybe_ kill me. This is fine.”

 _'What could possibly go wrong?'_ Karen chimed in.

The shelving rack of flowers Peter had just been hiding behind hurtled through the air towards him, and he only managed to dodge it because he _heard_ it coming.

 _No spidey-sense_ , Peter’s addled brain reminded him.

He quickly shot webs at Murk’s mechanical hands, pinning them to the ground. He knew it wouldn’t keep him down for long.

Peter’s HUD flickered, the displays fading in and out. Karen’s voice trembled. He tried again not to panic, taking deliberately deep breaths.

_'Something is happening to my systems.'_

“ _What’s_ happening?” Peter asked desperately, web-swinging up to a nearby balcony and launching himself off it again feet-first, straight towards the other man who was struggling with the webs on his hands. Murk’s head whipped to the side from the kick to his cheek, his metal claw-blades managing to slice through the web as he stumbled sideways to the ground. The webbing on his other hand snapped moments later.

Peter landed a few metres away, quickly swinging back up; high above Murk, above the roof of the closest building, the wind lashing against him.

Murk wasn’t looking up for him though – instead, he was looking down at something in his hand. Peter didn’t have time to figure out what it was before gravity was pulling at him. Using the height and momentum to shoot back towards solid ground, Peter aimed for the man’s back with his feet. He came down hard, forcing the mercenary to his knees, then swung back up to a few stories above ground, seeing Murk rising back to standing.

Peter lifted his arm in front of him, aimed, and fired a web to grab at a nearby lamp-post to swing from and change his trajectory – only no web came out. He kept trying, flicking his wrist over and over, but still nothing happened.

There was a long moment of weightlessness, then he was falling, really _falling_.

“No, no-no-no- _no_!” Peter’s voice went up by at least two octaves. “ _Karen_!”

And then he was hitting the ground, _hard_.

His vision went black for a moment, his chest feeling like someone had stuffed it with splinters. He groaned, rolling on to his back on the tarmac, trying to make sense of why his webs weren’t shooting when he only changed the canisters ten minutes ago and his HUD said they were nowhere near empty.

“What… was _that_?”

_'It seems there’s some kind of nanotech as well as the gas in the air. It’s managed to bypass the suit’s protective layers and— shutting down my ―—s at a rapid rate.'_

Now that Peter looked closer, the air was kind of dark, as if a very fine, dark grey mist had settled over the street. It was…

“ _Murky_ …” Peter breathed, head darting up, looking all around the dome as quickly as he could. “Where’s it coming from?!”

_'Scanning systems are down. Surveilla— ―arely functioning. I’m unable to detect a source.'_

“No, _no_ ,” Peter muttered, barely blocking another hit from a fist that came out of nowhere. “Okay Karen, tell me what _is_ working!”

There was a long pause, before;

_'I am still able to speak to you.'_

“That’s _IT_?” Peter yelled, managing to land a single punch to Murk’s face before being knocked off his feet again.

_'I’m sorry Peter.'_

Staring up at the grey-tinted blue sky from flat on his back, Peter thought that that was the most genuine, the most _human_ Karen had ever sounded; and it terrified him.

Within seconds, he was being hauled back up to his feet, a powerful kick to his stomach sending him crashing across the tarmac. As his body came to an uncontrolled stop, he could just about make out the crowd that had built up on the road outside the force-field – they were shouting, and—

Mr Stark was there.

The Iron Man suit covered everything except his head, and Peter could see the fire in his eyes as he shouted out orders Peter couldn’t hear to people around him.

_Mr Stark was there._

Peter’s head was swimming, his breaths coming in in difficult gasps – the hits had been raining down too fast, too fierce, and the air – _the_ _air_ – he knew it must be what was making him so vulnerable to someone so much weaker. He just hoped it wasn’t permanent.

Glancing over, Peter looked at Mr Stark, who was splitting his time between keeping an eye on Peter and attempting to break through the barrier that separated them. Obviously he was having some trouble, despite his super-strength and the tech available in the Iron Man suit. That, almost more than anything, made Peter _really_ worried.

If Mr Stark couldn’t get this thing down, what chance did Peter have?

Willing every ounce of what made him Spider-Man to the fore, Peter stood up shakily, then charged as fast as he dared towards Murk. But before his knuckles could even get near the guy’s face, he managed to reach out and grab Peter by the arm, his claw _lifting_ Peter up off the ground. His grip tightened by the millisecond, the metal slicing into flesh. Peter cried out, legs flailing, struggling in vain to escape the vicious hold.

Flashes of black erupted across his vision as another punch came down on his temple, his chest – he screamed with each blow, the jarring movement making the claw-blades sink deeper into the meat of his forearm, blood pouring. He tried to hit back, but the pain was spread across his whole body, exhaustion from the fight and dizziness from the head injuries making his reflexes too slow.

Without warning, the claw released his arm, but before he could fall more than a couple of inches, cold metal fingers wrapped around his neck and started _squeezing_. Peter’s eyes grew wide – he couldn’t breathe at _all_ , Murk’s vibranium hand cutting off his air supply except for tiny rasps, like breathing through a straw.

Peter started to panic, his blood-slick hands coming up to pull at the restraint around his throat, scrabbling desperately to try to get Murk off him, to find some air around his thick tongue, feet kicking to try to touch solid ground. Blood started rushing to his head, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and all he could do was stare at the glowing eyes set in the blank, white mask in front of him, not even able to see _who_ was about to kill him.

Peter could feel his strength leaving him, draining away with every beat of his heart, and even though Karen was trying to say something to him, he couldn’t understand her.

“Please,” Peter begged, no sound coming out, the pressure behind his eyes forcing tears to pour down his cheeks, “stop. _Stop_ ―”

He managed a few more weak pulls at Murk’s fingers, but the man’s grip wasn’t letting up, and Peter didn’t have the capacity to think anymore, let alone fight. He felt his arms dropping down to his sides as dots like TV static blurred the edges of his vision, his body suspended uselessly like a ragdoll in mid-air.

He didn’t think of anything as sensation fell away, the blackness enticing him again. But just before everything could go dark Peter was ripped back into consciousness, his airway suddenly open, air making its way into his aching lungs. The vice around his neck wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t actively _squeezing_ anymore. Light, colour, and sound flooded back in, Peter’s senses going haywire at the rapid return of sensory input. He gasped and coughed, hands coming back up to pull on Murk’s fingers, gulping as much oxygen as he could, suddenly able to smell the strange, sweet scent in the air – nothing at all like what it was usually like in Queens’ polluted and stuffy atmosphere.

As soon as he could focus on anything except just _breathing_ , Peter tried to turn his head a little and look to the side, to the nearest edge of the force-field.

Mr Stark was still there, managing to keep his sight on Peter while repeatedly slamming an iron fist into the barrier. Peter could see beams of light – _repulsor blasts_ – shooting down, hundreds of them aimed at various spots on the dome that separated them.

More importantly – he could see _cracks_. Small fissures in the surface were stretching out from each repulsor beam’s point of contact, growing steadily in size.

Tony was _doing_ it, he was going to get through, to be able to help, and Peter would―

He saw Mr Stark’s eyes widen, his mouth open in a silent scream, before he felt the pain.

It felt like another kick in the chest, only a hundred times worse. Peter looked back to the man holding him up in the air, staring briefly into those white eyes, before noticing the long piece of metal gripped in his other hand. A _blade_.

It took Murk pushing on it, the sensation of something _moving_ inside Peter’s chest, air hissing out of his lungs in a quick release, for him to realise the end of it disappeared _into_ his body. He could feel warm liquid running down the front of his suit, over the base of his spine, dripping to the concrete below him. The ringing in his ears got louder.

 _Oh god_ —

He’d been _impaled_.

Peter’s brain couldn’t understand what was happening, couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. His breaths came in shallow, short puffs, every millimetre he moved causing deep, piercing agony to shoot through his chest. His mouth opened and closed uselessly, totally silent, eyes fixed on where the long metal was _sticking out of him_.

Instead of trying to pull Murk’s hand away from his throat, Peter was suddenly frantically attempting to _hold on_ – to take any weight off the actual _sword_ stuck through him, just under his ribs.

Peter remembered a great, crashing wave, and having nothing to hold on to.

He could see Mr Stark, something terrifying – terri _fied_ – in his eyes, but he couldn’t reach him. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything except hang there, completely at the mercy of the mercenary holding him up in the air.

The processed voice was loud, so _loud_ , in the quiet that had surrounded them.

" _Mac Gargan_ sends his regards."

Then Murk’s claw-hand wasn’t holding the blade anymore – the extra weight pulling down on Peter’s wound shot more agony up his spine, a weak scream escaping his lips, one enormous shiver swelling outwards from his chest.

The claws retracted inside themselves, leaving behind only another metal hand, which reached up and behind Peter’s head. It took him too long to realise what Murk was about to do, and he knew he couldn’t do anything about it as cold fingers, wet with blood, latched on to the back of the Spider-Man mask.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :^) 
> 
> Tony's POV next. Yell at me please


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark roads. Peter breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hasn't turned out at all like I expected. Oh well.  
> If you're worried, re-read the 5th tag, kids. I just enjoy hurt before the comfort. Fun fact: I don't really like it when fics have a scene again from someone else's perspective ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Thanks for all your gorgeous comments (& kudos & bookmarks!), u guys are amazing. Scream @ me more after this one. Not totally sure where the next chapters are going but I do have stuff written, so just need to decide how to lay it all out and fill in (big) gaps. 
> 
> (Also to the person who sent me a prompt on tumbl dot com: I got it!! It's sitting there in my ask box. It will be done [someday] ♥)
> 
> **Blood, Injury, Violence, and some Language.**

 

Tony was eating dinner with Pepper when he got the alert that Peter’s suit was malfunctioning.

“What do you mean _malfunctioning_?”

FRIDAY’s voice held an edge of uncertainty.

_'Spider-Man’s AI, Karen, began sending a status report three minutes ago, but the outgoing message was cut off a few seconds later. I have only received fragmentary words since then.'_

Pepper looked at Tony worriedly.

            _'Police radio and news channels are reporting a disturbance in Queens. Footage shows Spider-Man is currently in combat with an unknown individual.'_

“Show me,” Tony demanded, shooting to his feet, cutlery clattering as he knocked into the table.

FRIDAY immediately brought up a hologram of multiple news channels, each showing Spider-Man fighting (and _chatting_ ) with a man with metal hands and a white mask.

They weren’t what caught Tony’s eye.

“What the hell is _that_?”

He pointed at the strange, transparent surface that enclosed the two figures, pinching then spreading his fingers to enlarge the image.

_‘It appears to be some kind of force-field.’_

“Play Karen’s report.”

Tony’s heart was hammering. Pepper appeared at his side, her presence solid and reassuring.

Karen’s voice came over FRIDAY’s systems, a blinking image of Peter’s vitals flickering on screen.

_‘Individual self-identified as ‘Murk the Mercenary’ – doesn’t appear to be enhanced, but Peter is taking hits harder than he should. Requesting assista—‘_

The recording cut out, statistics about the suit and Peter’s vitals glitching a few times before disappearing completely.

“A mercenary?” Pepper’s voice flooded with cold realisation. “Oh my god, someone’s-“

“Targeting him.” Tony finished, dread settling in his bones. “FRIDAY, suit. _Now_.”

“Tony-“ Pepper called, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Tony turned to her, looking down to the glass of water he hadn’t been able to finish at dinner as she pushed it into his hand.

“Drink.”

“Such a pain,” Tony muttered, downing it in one. “A good pain, of course. Enjoyable. Pleasurable, eve-“

“ _Tony_.” Pepper interrupted again, taking the glass from him. “Breathe. And be careful.”

Tony quickly pecked her on the lips on the way towards the door. “Love you!” He called over his shoulder, starting to jog down the corridor towards the nearest exit, the Iron Man suit rapidly taking shape around his body.

He was out and flying towards Queens in seconds. Karen continued to show him events as they unfolded – Spider-Man being thrown through the wall of a shop, screwing up a landing, Murk’s metal fist striking the back of Spider-Man’s head, his neck.

Spider-Man struggling to fight this guy off.

Spider-Man dragging himself across tarmac to crawl behind a bodega’s flower stand and _hide_.

Iron Man arrived in time to see the young superhero get tossed down the street, again.

The cheers of his name by civilians did nothing to ease Tony’s anxiety.

“Everyone get back!” he ordered, trying to herd people away from the perimeter of the barrier. Some did, others stayed glued to the spot, staring as their _friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man_ fought.

Seeing the kid barely dodge the entire shelving unit that was hurled at him shifted Tony’s priorities – as it was, with the force-field up, _Peter_ was the only one in imminent danger. He turned to look at the dome, lifting a hand and firing a few repulsor blasts at it.

The beam of light hit hard, the surface of the dome trembling slightly under the attack – but not even a scratch appeared on it.

“FRIDAY,” Tony said, “what’re we dealing with here?”

_‘It seems the force-field is made of a reinforced plastic and metal compound, assembled using nanotech.’_

“Any weak points?”

_‘Nowhere specific.’_

Tony watched Spider-Man web up Murk’s hands, kicking his face and swinging up and down buildings as FRIDAY spoke.

_‘I believe if you apply enough force to the entire surface area, the dome’s structural integrity would be compromised.’_

“Let’s try that then,” he replied, FRIDAY immediately sending off hundreds of small repulsors, independent of the suit, to evenly spread across the force-field, each one hovering a metre away from the surface.

Tony saw Spider-Man fall, but only saw _Peter_ as he continued to fall, desperately flicking his wrists. It took Tony a moment to realise, with horror, that the web-shooters weren’t working. He barely managed to hold in the yell of Peter’s name that tried to punch its way out of his lungs as the kid collided with the ground. He was almost glad he couldn’t hear anything from inside as Peter rolled on to his back slowly, his arms flopping down at his sides.

“All fire, _now_ ,” Tony ordered, raising both hands, shooting a constant beam from each palm and his chest, the flying repulsors following his cue to do the same.

            ‘ _Boss,_ ’ FRIDAY interrupted, concerned, ‘ _A gas is being released within the dome from three different devices._ ’

Tony’s heart skipped – again.

_‘I can’t tell what it is from out here.’_

“As soon as we get through this thing, disable those devices, or if we can’t, I want them blown halfway to _Asgard_.”

Peter blocked a punch, then didn’t.

_‘Force-field integrity at 90% - it’s working, Boss.’_

“Yeah, not fast enough,” Tony grunted, straining his arms to push _harder_. “Shut down unnecessary systems. Give me more juice, come _on_.”

He felt the extra force kick in, taking a half-step back to brace himself.

             _‘At maximum power, Boss.’_

Murk grabbed the front of Peter’s suit, hauling him up to kick the flat of his stomach, sending him flying.

Tony retracted his helmet, taking an involuntary step forward as Peter rolled and bounced across the concrete. He could see the rips and grazes in the material of the suit and Peter’s _skin_ from where he was standing.

“Alright,” he snapped, whirling back on the civilians that had been stepping even _closer_ to the barrier. “Get back, _now_.”

This time, they did as they were told.

Tony shot his repulsors again, hearing the police escorting the crowds back to a safer distance. He kept looking at Peter, catching his white-lensed gaze a few times as the kid heaved his tired body up again, launching himself back into the fight. Tony could see how exhausted he was, how _hurt_.

            _‘Force-field integrity at 80%.’_

Peter’s entire body jerked as Murk’s claws sunk deep into the meat of his forearm, lifting him in the air, his muscles contracting involuntarily as he tried to escape the pain.

And suddenly, amongst the chatter of people and whine of repulsor beams, there was noise.

Detached slightly, filtered through speakers, but undeniably _Peter_.

Peter _screaming_ as he was beaten by a vibranium fist, one arm being sliced to ribbons.

An eerie silence fell over the scene. Tony almost faltered in his attack on the barrier, his breath barely making it all the way to his lungs as he watched on helplessly, only twenty metres away from the fight but unable to get closer.

Peter slipped down out of Murk’s claws, released for a split-second, before the other hand was around his throat. His cries cut off, and all Tony could hear was faint wheezing.

            _'Structural integrity at 70%.’_

Spider-Man's – _Peter’s_ – whole body dangled from Murk's hand, head tipped back uncomfortably, faint choking noises escaping his throat. Tony could only watch and listen in horror, powerless to do anything as Peter suffered.

Peter’s hands scrabbled uselessly at the fingers that were throttling him, kicking his legs out in desperate futility, painful-sounding rasps being broadcast down the street as he fought for breath.

“FRIDAY!” Tony yelled, forcing himself to stay as focused on breaking through the barrier as possible – because if he didn’t, he was sure he would collapse or break something _else_ instead.

            _‘I’m giving it all I can!’_ she replied, sounding almost as desperate as Tony felt. _‘Structural integrity at 60%!’_

Peter’s kicks started to slow, gloved fingers losing their grip.

Cracks formed in the dome’s surface.

“Please.” Peter’s voice was no more than a faint exhale. “Stop. _Stop_ —“

“Come _ON_!” Tony shouted, pushing, _pushing_.

Peter’s arms fell slack. Murk didn’t let go.

There was silence through the speakers. Tony wished it was because the sound had been cut again. He stopped breathing, lungs burning in sympathy, in _fear_.

_50%._

A ragged gasp, difficult and not enough, but a breath – _Peter was breathing_ – followed by more. He started struggling again, coughing and—

Peter turned his head.

Tony knew he was looking at him, looking for help, for reassurance that _Iron Man_ would save him.

 _Iron Man_ was _trying_ to save him.

 _Tony Stark_ was doing _nothing_.

He lurched towards the thin, _stupidly_ strong barrier that stood between him and the kid, throwing all his strength into punch after punch against it, desperate to break through.

“I need to _get to him!_ ”

            _‘Process ongoing, Boss!’_

            _40%._

Peter didn’t look away, head turned stubbornly towards Tony as he was being strangled to death – and no matter how much he wanted to ( _coward_ , a voice in his head whispered), Tony didn’t break their stare either.

Peter didn’t look away – not when Murk reached down to his belt, pulling out something metal that began to grow in size, forming into a _huge fucking sword_. Not when Murk shifted his grip on it, swinging his arm back.

“ _NO!_ ” Tony screamed, pressed against the force-field, as close as he could physically be to the kid.

            _30%._

The blade went straight through, under Peter’s ribs and out his back. It only took a second.

A release of breath, the first drops of blood.

Peter broke their stare to look at Murk, at his blank white face, Spider-Man’s lens-eyes wide.

Tony burst back into action, heart pounding, stepping back and starting to fire his repulsors again.

Peter looked down.

Murk pushed, another couple of inches of the blade disappearing into Peter’s body – another couple of inches appearing out of his back, drenched in blood.

            _20%._

Tony screamed.

Peter’s breathing was shallow, barely daring to move his chest. Tony could hear every single gasp. He watched Peter try to take weight off the sword, his body twitching from pain or shock or both —

Still Peter kept looking back to him.

            _10%._

Murk let go, but the sword stayed in.

Peter’s scream cracked. His whole body convulsed.

            _5%._

The fractures in the dome spread into great fissures.

When Tony saw the vibranium claws retract, blunt fingers reaching up for the mask, his brain shot back into action at the speed of a bullet, helmet forming around his head.

 “FRIDAY, get all future footage wiped, _now_. No more cameras on him.”

_‘Yes Boss.’_

The force-field splintered and fell apart, the sound like glass shattering, raining down in a million tiny shards to the streets below.

Tony stepped forward.

“You move that hand another _millimetre_ and I’ll _blow your fucking head off_ ,” he shouted, arm raised, repulsor ready to do exactly that.

Murk paused, turning his head to look at Tony, those blank eyes revealing nothing.

Peter’s chokes were real and _close_.

Murk’s focus fell back on Peter. His hand moved to grip the sword’s hilt.

Tony _flew_.

An inch of the blade slid free before Tony fired a laser, slicing through the metal midway between Murk’s hand and Peter’s body. The sword cleaved in two, one half still in Peter, the other in the mercenary’s hand.

Murk made a low sound of annoyance, looked back at Tony, and tossed Peter aside. The kid dropped in a heap, rolling onto his side.

Tony took off towards him, but was stopped by something slamming into his chest, forcing him back a metre. Murk blocked the way to Peter, the short half of the sword still wielded in his hand.

“Move. _Now_.” Tony growled, charging up a repulsor.

Murk didn’t flinch.

            _‘Boss – there’s –‘_

Tony fired. Nothing happened.

            _‘—nanotech in the air, as well as gas that’s—‘_

Murk launched forward, smashing a metal fist into Tony’s head, another beating down on the centre of his chest.

            _‘It’s dissipating into the atmosphere b—_

_‘—systems aren’t functioning properly.’_

The boosters gave out, and Tony crashed flat on his back to the concrete below. He tried frantically to get up, but the suit _refused_ to move.

“ _FRIDAY_!”

He was trapped.

Murk – unarmoured, _barely_ armed – stood above him, one foot planted on each side of Tony’s hips. He raised the sword above his head, clasping the hilt in both hands, the broken blade facing down, aimed at Tony’s heart.

            _‘Syst— re-boot—‘_

Tony moved a hand, his elbow, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t _fast_ enough – the sword came down.

It never met his flesh – never even touched his armour.

A string of web caught the metal, wrenching it out of Murk’s hands. The man’s head shot to the side, a frantic “ _no!_ ” let out before a web hit his face, another wrapping around his arm, yanking him through the air.

Tony tilted his head the couple of centimetres the offline suit would allow – and saw Peter; lenses partly closed, panting, one arm dropping back to the ground, one hovering over the foreign object stuck through him.

Tony lay incapacitated as FRIDAY worked on fixing the suit, listening to the sound of heavy footsteps running on concrete – _running away_.

“ _No_!” he yelled, knowing Murk was escaping, that Peter was—

            _‘We’re back online, Boss.’_

Tony shot to his feet, only sparing a side glance at the mercenary as he fled the scene. He wasn’t the priority.

_Peter._

“Kid?” he choked, stepping out of the Iron Man suit, falling to his knees beside him.

There were smears and a pool of blood on the tarmac, leaking from within Peter’s suit.

Helicopter blades whirred overhead.

“FRIDAY, _For Your Eyes Only_ Protocol,” Tony said, knees scraping on shards as he crawled closer to the kid – who was still _Spider-Man_ to everyone else.

In the next few seconds a new perimeter was set up, a nanotech wall of his own making – a barrier between them and the outside world, one-way glass meaning they could see out, but no-one could see in. FRIDAY confirmed that all cameras and smartphones in the area had been disabled, along with the devices that had previously been spraying gas and suit-immobilising nanotech.

“Peter?” Tony said, reaching out and pulling the mask off in one quick movement.

Peter screwed his eyes shut at the sudden influx of light, turning his face towards the concrete. His face was bruised, pale, and _bloody_ – deep crimson liquid bubbling up through his lips, his nose, running down his chin.

“M-Mister Stark?” he managed, breathy and weak.

“Y-yeah kid, it’s me, I’m here,” Tony rambled, looking down. “ _Oh god_ —“

Up close, Tony could see where the blade entered, under the ribs to the right of Peter’s abdomen. It had gone in angled up, the end coming out of his back much higher, almost between his shoulder blades.

Peter’s hair was sweaty, his skin ashen and waxy. He was shivering.

“Do you always heal this _slow?_ Why aren’t you healing?” Tony asked, staring at the tiny grazes and scrapes on Peter’s skin that were still there, still weeping tiny drops of blood. “FRI, _why isn’t he_ —”

            _‘I’ve taken a sample of the gas that was in the air to be examined - it seems to have rendered all of Peter’s abilities nearly obsolete. His suit is currently rebooting and I’m being sent reports of his performance and injuries.’_

Tony’s heart skipped again.

“He’s _human_?”

            _‘Not quite. But close to. He needs serious medical attention now if he is to survive.’_

Tony looked at the kid – at his fluttering eyelashes, his trembling body, the litany of ‘ _fucks’_ falling out of his mouth.

“What can I do?”

            _‘Apply pressure to the area around the blade and try to keep him conscious. Medics are only a couple of minutes away now.’_

“Send them the suit’s reports and your own,” Tony said, ripping off his probably _very fucking expensive_ suit jacket as he spoke.

            _‘Will do. Karen says he sustained three cracked ribs, minor internal bleeding, and took several blows to the head resulting in a concussion before scanning systems went offline.’_

Tony took the new information in stride, tearing the sleeves off the jacket and using them to put pressure on Peter’s front. The kid moaned and swore, kicking his legs weakly, staring into the distance, struggling against the new pain.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Tony soothed, not totally sure he was only saying it to Peter. “We gotta put pressure on it and slow the bleeding down. Peter.”

Peter’s eyes moved to him.

“Hold this, hold it,” Tony instructed, taking Peter’s hand and pressing it on the jacket.

Peter’s grip stayed when Tony let go.

“Good job, keep it there,” he said, doing the same with the body of the jacket on the kid’s back.

Peter gasped wetly, air rasping through his windpipe, then started coughing as Tony pushed down on the wound, blood spattering in front of his face.

“FRIDAY, what do I do?!” Tony asked desperately, hands trembling.

            _‘Breathe, boss. Medics are only a couple of minutes away now.’_

 _You said that a minute ago_ , he wanted to yell, wanted to scream to the skies _who the fuck decided the kid deserved this_ , but it wouldn’t solve anything. Nothing mattered except Peter.

He collapsed to the ground, sitting in the blood, anxiety pounding at his ribcage, and all he could think to do was reach forwards and drag Peter sideways onto his lap.

The kid groaned, a guttural sound, his muscles spasming for a second before sinking his weight into Tony’s legs. He propped Peter’s head up in the crook of his elbow, angling it slightly so he could see his face.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” Peter muttered, tears making lines in the dirt and blood on his skin, his face pinched. “I’m sorry, I’m s-sor-ry, _I’m so sorry_ —”

His eyes were big and brown, frightened, _young_.

It took Tony too long to realise Peter was crying.

 

 

 _It hurts_ , Peter thought, _oh god, there’s so much blood—_

He could barely breathe, pulling in air in sobs and wheezes, the invasion of the blade in his body stopping him from moving, his fingers numb.  

He remembered feeling small, standing in front of a violent ocean. He remembered wanting to be dragged out to sea.

The blood in his lungs made it feel like he was drowning.

“ _Hey_ , no sleeping!” Mr Stark’s voice said, and Peter jolted, eyes snapping open. “Eyes on me, kid. Keep breathing.”

“’m sorry.” Peter wasn’t sure if he’d already apologised.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Mr Stark said, the sound trembling.

“Sorry.” Peter said again.

Mr Stark – _Tony_ Stark – grabbed his hand.

They were still, silent for a while. Tony’s breathing sounded like waves.

 

 

“Mister Stark?” Peter’s voice was weaker.

“Yeah, kid?”

He could hold Peter. He could slow the bleeding, he could wait, he could hold Peter’s hand.

“Can we g-go,” Peter swallowed, “to the beach s-sometime?”

Tony only hesitated for a second at the change in subject, not questioning it for the kid’s sake.

 _Anything_ , he’d do _anything_ for Peter once this was over, once he was all healed up and swinging around Queens again.

“Wherever you want, Pete. Wanna take May and your friends too? I bet Pepper would come, she loves the sea.”

The kid’s eyes lost their focus, his breaths hitching.

“Peter?”

Tony didn’t need FRIDAY to tell him that Peter’s heart was slowing down.

“ _Peter_?”

Peter’s glassy eyes moved slowly to his, his mouth moving, trying to form words.

“B-Ben?”

The name was weakly forced out, his breath crackling.

Tony’s heart plummeted.

“No, kid, just me,” he replied, desperately fighting his need to hold Peter tighter, knowing it would only hurt him.

Peter didn’t seem to respond in any way or take in the answer at all. He just stared up at Tony, blurry gaze unwavering. Tony listened to him breathe, the sound of each inhale wheezy, each exhale wet and thick. He focused on it, grounding himself with the weight of Peter’s head on his lap.

He concentrated on the kid’s eyes, on his soft, young face, instead of the blood.

He tried to breathe.

 

 

Peter looked up at the sky, at the blue above the skyscrapers, and knew it wasn’t the same blue as the sea, but the _pull_ , the _drag_ of the tide still clawed at his mind. He panicked.

“ _I’m scared, I—_ ” he gasped, tearing his gaze away from the blue, fixing his eyes on Tony, on Tony’s eyes. “I n-need something to hold on to, o-or I’m gonna _drown_ ―”

Tony’s eyes were terrified, confused, crinkles at the corners of them. Peter didn’t know how to explain, how to say that he was being dragged away into the darkness. He kicked, trying to get _out_ , _get away_.

Tony squeezed his hand and the tide went out.

“Please don’t let go, please, _please_ —“

If he let go he’d drown, he’d _drown_.

“Please I need – I need—“  

“I won’t let go kid, I promise, I’ve got you,” Tony said, and Peter breathed.

He _breathed_. He had something to hold on to.

 

 

“It’s okay, I- I’ve got you Pete, I’ve got you.“

A tiny smile lifted Peter’s lips.

His voice was an exhale, nothing more.

“ _I know_.”

They were looking at each other as his eyes closed.

Tony put his hand on Peter’s cheek, shaking him gently, but the kid’s head only lolled to the side. He drew his hand back like he’d been burned.

“Oh god, _oh god_ ,” he gasped, bending forward to hold Peter’s head to his chest, curled over him protectively, one hand still pushing on the blood-soaked jacket. “I got you, I got you, it’s gonna be okay, I got you, _it’s gonna be okay_ —“ 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word I noted down while coming up with the title of this fic: endure. 
> 
> There will be MJ & May & Ned in some form next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Thanks for it all, Mr Ditko & Mr Lee. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey fellas. Sorry I'm super late! I performed in a play, joined another theatre company, am midway through doing like 7 applications, practising speeches, went to Italy... I'm busy, basically. And also this chapter was a DOOZY. Some bits came so easy, others not so, and i debated deleting a scene, then was like ??? overall lol but here we are! 
> 
> The spideychelle in here was actually the first thing I ever wrote for this fic in like June. It will of course all be blown to pieces when we get movie numero 2. I’m just very impatient  
> P.S. i lied about the Ned and May this time. longest chapter yet tho!
> 
> **Blood, Injury, Language.**

The EMTs made quick work of getting Peter stable enough to move.

Lines and wires and tubes were attached, medics speaking clearly and loudly about vitals and readings and percentages, and Peter lay still. They got him strapped down awkwardly to a gurney, lying on his side, pressure bandages packed on his front and back, his fingers curled loosely where they rested on the bed.

Tony just sat and watched, his brain somewhere else even though he was seeing it all happen. Someone gave him a foil shock blanket at some point, which was… just amusing, mostly. He was _Iron Man_ , for god’s sake.  

His left hand was trembling, though.

A police officer sat with him for a few minutes. When they loaded the kid up into the ambulance, Tony turned to her, just about coherent enough to take in her deep brown skin and kind eyes. He needed to call May.

“Where are they taking him?” His voice was croaky.

She got up, jogging over to the ambulance, and exchanged a couple of words with an EMT before the doors were closed and it drove off down the street, sirens wailing and lights flashing.

Her jacket looked too hot to be wearing in the current weather.

“They’re headed to Queens Trinity Hospital,” she said once she was in earshot. “We can drive you, if—“

Tony pointed at the Iron Man suit that was stood in sentry mode just a couple of metres away. The woman nodded.

“Anything else you need, Mister Stark?” she asked.

He shook his head, slowly coming to standing, knees creaking.

“I’ve got a daughter, ‘bout his age. She’s enhanced,” she said firmly, hands on her hips. Tony looked at her. “He makes her feel better about it. Less frightened.”

Tony didn’t know what to say. Her eyes were warm.

“I hope he’s okay, Stark. He does good work out here. Make sure he knows that.”

He nodded, once. “I will.”

He turned to the suit, allowing the familiar metal to surround him, closing off the flashing lights and sirens, as the woman walked away.

“FRIDAY, get those gas samples back to the compound for analysis and call Helen Cho in. Tell medical to prep for receiving Spider-Man in the next couple of hours. Oh, and enrol that officer’s daughter in our gifted individuals healthcare policy.”

            _‘We have no healthcare policy listed under that name, boss.’_

“I know. I just created it.”

With palms facing down and head to the sky, he took off.

 

 

 

The nurse at the ER desk had explained that Peter was being stabilised and having some emergency scans done, and that when the doctors were satisfied with his condition, they’d take him into surgery. Someone would come get him then. It was all she could tell him.

While they’d been waiting for the ambulance, Tony had had FRIDAY call in a few specialists – doctors that knew who Peter was – and they’d been waiting at Queens Trinity by the time Peter got there.

The rest of the staff were _all_ going to sign non-disclosure agreements, as soon as possible, or Tony would… something. Something _threatening_ , that he couldn’t think of.

He couldn’t bear the thought of Peter’s identity getting out because of _this_ – because of some _asshole_ who’d been hired by some _other_ asshole to beat on a kid.

He was directed to a smaller waiting room, one with a sign above the door that said _Surgical Emergency Ward_. Nothing was quite making sense, everything he was doing and seeing being filtered through a fog, detached from him.

Anxiety bubbled under his skin.

Peter would be fine – he had _super-healing_.

Tony sat. He didn’t know for how long – he could hear a clock ticking and knew that the seconds were moving, minutes upon minutes going by, but he couldn’t count them. They just passed.

Peter would be fine – he’d probably be cleared to go home in a couple of hours. Peter would be fine.

He knew he needed to _do something_ , but he couldn’t think of what. They’d told him to sit, so he sat.

Peter had _super-healing_.

The TV was playing quietly on the wall.

He zoned in to newsreaders speculating about it all; when the small privacy barrier had been taken down for the medics, why was Tony Stark sat clutching Spider-Man’s head to his chest, rocking gently back and forth? Was he just protecting the hero's identity, or was there something more than just _casual_ _teaming-up to fight baddies_ going on between them? Tony’s screaming and panic outside the force-field during the fight had pretty heavily swayed that speculation towards the latter answer.

 _I mean, it’s obvious they care for each other in more than just a professional capacity_ , one man in a wrinkled suit on a chat show was saying. _And presumably Tony Stark will be releasing a statement at some point, so depending on how he is… emotionally, I suppose, we’ll be able to tell more abou—_

He didn’t realise he was on his feet, switching the TV off, until a couple of other people gave him uneasy looks. He smiled tightly at them, desperately trying to avoid eye contact, before settling back into his seat, rubbing his thighs a couple of times.

His skin was _crawling_. The world focused down to each breath he took, in and out, in and out, as he tried to stay calm. It was much easier said than done.

“Stark?”

The voice made him jump to his feet.

A man with a short salt and pepper beard, dressed in dark blue scrubs, his hair covered and a mask around his neck, walked towards him.

“Walk with me,” the man said.

Tony didn’t need to be asked twice.

The man started talking the second they were beyond earshot of the people in the waiting room. “I’m Andrew Stefánsson, the lead anaesthesiologist on call today – I’m going to cut to the chase here—“

Tony’s fingertips went cold. He kept walking.

“—I’m one of yours and I know Peter is enhanced, I know who he is, but we haven’t got any actual data on what _exactly_ his biology is.”

They turned a corner, Andrew gesturing towards an open door further down the corridor as he spoke.

“We urgently need to know if you’ve done any further studies on Peter – his metabolism, his healing rate.” He came to a stop, turning to look at Tony, eyes searching. “ _Anything_.”

“No, no we haven’t done anything,” Tony answered, his brain working through molasses. “I wanted to get Helen Cho to look at his DNA but we haven’t got round to it yet. I don’t–“

It was then that he understood the look in the doctor’s eyes.

 _Fear_. Fear and _panic_.

The questions, the specifics, _the_ _lead_ _anaesthesiologist_ ; it all came into horrifying clarity in that exact moment. Unbridled _terror_ flooded Tony’s body at the realisation of what Andrew was implying.

“What happened?” Tony demanded.

“We were just about to move him to the OR, we were sure he was under, he wasn’t responding to even painful stimuli, but as soon as–“

Tony thought Peter’s wheezing, wet breaths slowing to a near-stop was the worst sound he’d ever heard.

Nothing could compare to the _screams_ echoing down the hallways of the hospital. Blood-curdling, desperate, agonised screaming – in a voice he _knew_.

“Where is he?!” Tony yelled, backing the doctor up by a step.

“Stark, you can’t go in–“

“Like _hell_ I can’t – _where is he_?”

When the man didn’t answer, Tony just started walking. He followed the sound of screaming, knowing they couldn’t be far. It didn’t take long.

The room beyond the doors was barely-controlled chaos. So many people surrounded the bed that Tony couldn’t even count them, all of them involved in some task or other. At least six were attempting to hold down the thrashing body.

Seeing Peter’s face made it real.

He was lying on his side, the blade still grotesquely sticking out of his front and back. Some leads and IV ports had been put in place, machines wailing, but Peter very obviously _wasn’t_ sedated. He certainly wasn’t anywhere near his usual strength or the hands on him wouldn’t be able to keep him down, but his eyes were wide, flooded with tears, searching the room for something. His mouth opened and closed in pained, breathless screams, the fingers of his right hand fisted on the bed, his hair sweaty. His other hand lay useless, swollen, his wrist swathed in bloody bandages.

Tony only hesitated for a moment, then rushed to him.

“His metabolism, it’s…” Tony put a hand on the kid’s bare shoulder, the other on the bed.

“Fast,” Andrew answered over the noise. “We know.”

Tony bent down, and Peter’s eyes finally found his. The clarity in them, the _agony_ was so obvious, Tony felt sick.

“I’ve pushed 300 milligrams of propofol, 50 over the maximum dosage,” Andrew continued, adapting quickly to the new addition to the room. “Someone his size should be out by _160_.”

Peter’s mouth moved with no sound for a few seconds, then found his voice.

“S-stop, please,” he begged, gaining volume. “ _Please_!”

Tony held his shoulder tighter, shushing him softly.

Peter kicked out. The nurses and doctors shouted in alarm, a monitor went haywire, but they managed to keep him down.

Tony could feel him shivering.

 “Stark, listen – we’re _your_ team.” The doctor had to shout to be heard over the increasing noise in the room. “We’ve got the stats for _all_ the Avengers, _all_ the modified medications _here_ ; what can we give him?”

“I don’t _know_! I don’t–“ Tony’s eyes grew wide.

 _”Steve’s_ ,” he said, meeting Stefánsson’s frantic gaze. “Call Cho, _now_ – ask her about Steve Rogers’ supply.”

The man didn’t need to be told twice.

Tony leaned over Peter’s face, trying to get him to calm down, but his eyes were screwed shut, tears leaking down his temple and across his nose. He let out another scream, his struggling only getting worse, _begging_ them to stop, legs kicking and nearly managing to roll himself off the gurney.

“Please _stop,_ help me!” Peter’s voice cracked. “ _Stop stop sto_ —“

Blood pooled on the sheets.  

Tony couldn’t take it.

“Give him the drug,” he shouted over the activity, desperate for this to just _end_. “He’s enhanced, his metabolism burns through coffee in _minutes_ – I _know_ him!”

Andrew looked at him sharply over the phone in his hand. “I will not risk his life by _guessing_ that something will work simply because you _know him_.”

Tony gripped Peter’s shoulder and head, looking at the tens of hands on his small body, pressing him against the bed despite his thrashing.

“It can’t get much _fucking worse_ than this!”

He gave Andrew the most piercing look he could, promising _hellfire_ if they didn’t do as he said. “ _Give him_. _The drug_.”

“Not until it’s cleared by Doctor Cho.”

Tony spent minutes – too long, way too long – just staring down at the kid. Even Peter’s ear was smeared with blood. His skin was clammy and cold, shivers and trembles spread all down his body, his fingers cracking the metal of the gurney where he gripped it.

Tony couldn’t cope with acknowledging anything else in the room. He zoned in on Peter and only Peter, lying trapped on his side, barely aware of what was happening.

He held Peter’s cheek, stroking a finger across his temple in a feeble attempt at comfort. The kid just kept crying. Tony found a rhythm with his hand, trying to give some of his warmth to the cool skin beneath his touch.

Peter cried.

Tony muttered nonsense reassurances, lost in the task, feeling like the most fucking useless person in the world and trying to not let it affect him. He could hold Peter’s head. He could hold on to hope, hold on to the knowledge that this will end, _this will end_.

Someone yelled his name. When he looked up, there was a Starkphone being shoved in his face, a ghostly image of Cho appearing in front of him.

“Helen,” he shouted, “ _will Rogers’ supply work?_ ”

She looked at him, then down at something in her hand, probably papers.

“It’s the best we have,” she said. “ _Use it_.”

The room erupted in a flurry of activity. Andrew didn’t make any fuss or comment and nor did Tony, both focused solely on stopping this shitstorm as soon as possible – for the sake of the _sixteen year-old_ they were _both_ trying to keep alive.

Tony heard them talking about what they were doing, watched as a nurse adjusted Peter’s not-mangled arm, holding it still as Stefánsson got hold of one of the lines coming out of an IV port on the inside of his forearm. Tony pulled his eyes away, back to the kid’s face.

“Peter,” he said firmly, forcing the teenager’s focus to come back to him. “ _Peter_.”

Peter’s eyes opened and met his again, still full of pain and confusion, but there was _recognition_ there too. He was still crying, tear tracks down his face.

“Help,” he pleaded, a wheezy exhale. “ _Help_ _me_ — m-make it _sto-op_!”

“It’s okay,” Tony said, his heart pounding.

“ _Help_ , _m’ster St_ –“

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Andrew’s thumb push the plunger on a syringe to halfway.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Tony repeated, holding Peter’s frantic gaze. “You’re okay, just keep your eyes on me.”

Peter’s struggling slowed a little.

“That’s it,” Tony encouraged. He stroked Peter’s cheek. “You’re okay. Just relax. You’re okay.”

He heard Stefánsson call another dose. Peter’s blinks got longer, his grip on the broken bedrail loosened. His breathing slowed.

Tony just stared, watching him slowly slip away.

Someone grabbed his arm the second Peter stopped moving, shoving him back towards the doors. His fingers lost contact with Peter’s skin. He couldn’t do anything, couldn’t get any words out to protest. He wondered how long it would take for Peter’s cheek to go cold again. Perhaps it already had.

They pushed him out of the room. Someone garbled out an apology, and he couldn’t see Peter anymore, just scrubs and gloved hands and metal and tiny glimpses of skin, and it was loud, still so _loud_ , and that same monitor that had been going off _the whole time_ kept going, and—

The doors closed.

Tony stumbled backwards, hit a wall, breathing picking up.

His hands went cold. He rubbed them together, blowing warm air into them, lungful after lungful, humming, until he could feel his fingertips again. His chest still felt like a vice was clamped around it.

He turned and walked down the corridor, relying on his feet to take him to wherever he should be. He just ended up in another corridor, somewhere else, further away from Peter, with no sense of where he was.

 _Fuck_ his feet.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, looking around, his chest feeling tighter by the second. “ _Mhm_.”

He found a short row of plastic chairs bolted up against a wall after a minute and collapsed down into one, knees like jelly. He tried to breathe.

“Mmm.”

 _Tried_ to breathe.

Tried for a long time, for what must have been over thirty minutes, his fingers moving uselessly in the absence of anything to do with them. Harley’s idea to _build something_ had served him well over the years but now there was nothing, _nothing_ he could do.

He sat and thought about blood and wormholes and broken vertebra and Peter and car batteries and flickering blue light and Peter and _Peter_.

He sat.

The vice loosened by a millimetre. Maybe less.

“Mister Stark?”

He looked up at the empty corridor.

A woman, short and chubby and wearing light blue scrubs, with gentle brown eyes and dyed-blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, turned a corner into the hallway, obviously searching. Searching for him.

She walked over and sat in the seat next to him, her knees angled towards him.

“Is he okay?” It took a moment for Tony’s brain to catch up with his mouth.

“My name’s Daniela,” she said carefully. “I’ve got a meeting room set up where we can talk in—“

Her words faded away, Tony’s entire attention being stolen by her name badge.

 _Daniela Acosta_ , it said, and underneath: _Paediatric Nurse_.

The vice around Tony’s chest tightened tenfold, his lungs burning.

_Paediatric._

He stumbled to his feet, hand coming up to rest over his chest, heart galloping much too fast. He walked down the hall, zeroing in on a sign, following it until he found himself in a bathroom stall, kneeling over a toilet and throwing up most of the contents of his stomach.

Blood – _Peter’s_ blood – _everywhere_. A gaping wound, _Rhodey falling, on the ground unmoving, Pepper, falling, falling –_ him _, falling, back to earth, plummeting to his death –_ Peter _, hanging, choking –_

_He’s human?_

Brown eyes slipping closed–

_Not quite._

Tony tried to breathe but it was like everything that had happened was hitting him at once, all the panic from the last hours imploding in his chest, every fear he’d ever had coming to life right in front of him.

Peter’s gasping breaths, wet and crackling, his unfocused eyes – _I’m gonna drown_ – his apologies – _sorry, I’m sorry, ’m sorry_ – his blood, his blood – _M-Mister Stark?_

Tony crawled to the sink.

_Paediatric._

Peter was a _child._

Tony’s hands were red.

He scrubbed them until they were raw, concentrating on the sensation, on the smell of antiseptic soap, the rush of water, the sight of the red, the pink, all washing down the drain. He washed his hands over and over, splashed his face, until he could take more than gasping breaths, until his heart slowed a little, until sounds came back properly. Until his hands were clean.

He knew they’d never be clean. Not really.

 _Merchant of Death_.

Daniela was waiting outside.

“Can we…?” He gestured to the chairs, one hand coming down to tap at his thigh. “Here, please. I can’t–“

 _I can’t_ _walk more than a couple of steps or I’ll collapse_.

She nodded in understanding.  

“Mister Stark–“

Tony tasted bile. They both sat down.

“Mister Stark,” she repeated. “I’m really sorry, I know that your personal doctors are here, but you’re not related to Peter nor are you listed as next of kin. We’ll need to wait for Peter’s aunt to discuss anything further. Do you know when she’ll be here?”

“I–“ Tony swallowed, heart in his stomach. “I need to call her. His aunt.”

Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ , he hadn’t called May.

“We’ve been in contact,” Daniela assured.

It didn’t make Tony feel better, knowing that May had heard from someone she didn’t know.

“But it might be a good idea to get in contact yourself. For both of your sakes.” The nurse looked torn over whether to reach out to comfort him. She obviously decided against it, laying her hands back in her lap. “We gave her some information over the phone, but a lot of it we can only discuss in person. I’m sure she’d appreciate you telling her more.”

Tony nodded. _Fuck_.

“The private waiting room your team requested for you and Peter’s family is set up, if you want to call from somewhere quieter,” Daniela said.

“Yep,” Tony agreed. “Sounds good.”

The nurse looked only mildly surprised at the speed at which he launched himself out of his seat, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm his fingers up.

_Be normal. Normal, stand-offish Tony Stark._

He wished he had sunglasses.

Daniela led him to the new waiting room – it was much the same as the last one, not actually a separate room but a wider, open space between two hallways with some chairs in it. He didn’t sit down. Daniela went over to the water cooler in the corner and poured a cup, bringing it back over and holding it out.

Tony managed to not comment as he took it from her hand.

“The nurse’s station is just down this hall, I’ll be there most of the time and when I’m not someone else will be,” she explained. “I’ll keep checking in on Peter so I’m all caught up by the time his aunt is here. Come find me if you need anything.”

Tony stared at the wall.

Daniela smiled tightly, and moved to go. Tony’s brain caught up with his eyes.

“Daniela?” he called out. She turned to look back. “Thank you.”

Her face lifted, a little. “All part of the job.”

He watched her leave, sitting down only when she was out of sight, thankful for the absence of any TV reports.

He sat for another stretch of time, pulling his phone out of his pocket, tapping nervously at its dark screen. A door opened down the hall.

Tony drank the water, unlocked the phone, and stared at the screen.

Footsteps, fast and determined, pounded closer.

He looked round.

A girl, curly hair tied loosely back, stray locks falling over her face, stood down the corridor, towards the waiting room. Sweaty and panting, she honed in on Tony in milliseconds, her jaw locked and eyes dark with fury.

“Michelle–“

 

 

 

The first time they kissed it was cloudy, and a Sunday.

They had an English Literature quiz the next day, and MJ had come over to Peter’s to study. They’d held hands for the first time a few days before, while walking the long way home through a little park Peter used to kick a ball around when he was a kid.

MJ’s hand had found his almost by accident – the sun was out, cars and trucks honking only a couple of blocks over, and it had just felt right, somehow, to reach out for Peter. She had seen his mildly panicked look out of the corner of her eye, but for once decided not to poke fun at him. She also saw the smile on his face as he turned his gaze back on the greenery around them, and felt him gently adjust his grip so her hand sat more comfortably in his.

It was nice.

She told Peter as much the next day, and it only took him a couple of seconds to take the hint, slipping his fingers into her palm.

Despite having studied and hung out plenty of times in the months since D.C., both alone and with Ned, that Sunday had been different. May hadn’t been home and they’d made early dinner, Peter preparing a sauce while MJ chopped vegetables and put on some pasta. There was an easy silence as they worked, and when MJ had caught Peter staring out the window, a faraway look in his eyes as the sun began to set over Queens, she’d hooked her little finger around his and quietly alerted him to the fact that his sauce was burning. A laugh had erupted out of her unexpectedly as Peter came violently back to the present, swearing under his breath as he turned down the heat.

They’d eaten their pasta with peppers and mushrooms in big bowls in Peter’s room, their conversations escaping in peals through the open window, sat amongst papers and retro tech and various evolutions of web-shooters.

When Peter told MJ he was Spider-Man a few months into their friendship, so faintly she’d barely heard it, something in her almost unnoticeably awoke. A fear.

Not that she ever would’ve called it that, or admitted to it. She’d known, really, for a while.

“You… you know?” Peter had stuttered, all anxiousness and trepidation gone in the face of his confusion. “What do you mean – _you_ _know_?”

“I mean,” she’d said, heart pounding a bit, “that I figured you out. You were always disappearing, missing school, quitting things – and after D.C., the only time Spider-Man has been seen outside of New York except for Berlin…”

Peter’s face had been pale, frightened.

“The timings added up.” MJ shrugged. “And that guy’s – your – attitude. More confident, yeah, but… you. Not to mention the whole secretive Stark Internship, and– those bruises sometimes. It added up.”

Peter had looked on the verge of a panic attack, swallowing tightly.

“Is it that obvious?”

MJ looked him in the eye.

“I think it says something about the state of the American education system that nobody else has worked it out, but… I’m – close to you. I know you, maybe not for very long, but I do.”

It had felt like she was confessing something to him in return, just for that moment.

“And I’m smart. And observant.”

Peter laughed. It was warm, and a wordless agreement. The sound hit her like a compliment.

Yes, she’d known he was Spider-Man for a while before he’d told her. But until the words came out of his mouth that day, part of her still hoped it wasn’t true, that she’d joke about it one day and he’d laugh at the idea. Because MJ knew that Spider-Man ran head-first into danger, that he was burdened with a responsibility – MJ knew he got _hurt_.

The fear that awoke in her said that one day he wouldn’t come home. She saw the same terror in Ned’s eyes, in May’s – in _Peter’s_. Knowing he feared for his own life but still went out and fought for the city and its people and sometimes the _world_ , made MJ’s heart ache in a way she couldn’t understand. She knew he lived his life in parts – sometimes Peter, sometimes Spider-Man – and sub-parts – Peter from school, Peter the orphan, Peter the nervous and weedy teenager; Spider-Man of the _friendly-neighbourhood_ kind, Spider-Man of the _world-saving_ , _everything-is-my-responsibility_ kind. Most of the time she was proud of him, excited – but sometimes she wished he had normality. That the Peter Parker didn’t have to be separated from the Spider-Man, and her friend could just be himself. No secrets. No fear.

She wished it for herself, too, and for May and Ned – and Tony Stark, if he cared as much about Peter as she suspected. Wished they would never have to know what it felt like to see Peter hurt, or dead, because she knew it’d happen someday.

The pasta had been just the right side of spicy. MJ had watched as Peter served out a third bowl, covering it up to keep it fresh and scribbling a quick note to leave with it for when May came home. Peter finished his bowl first (“ _crazy metabolism_ ” May had said months before, cooking enough food for five people) and put it down next to his bed, going over some flashcards with quotes from _Macbeth_ on them.

MJ watched him as she ate. She looked at the way the pale sunlight, dulled from the cloud cover, fell on his face in a cool glow, let her eyes linger a while on the curl of his eyelashes, on the hands that were half-covered by too-long sweatshirt sleeves.

She’d tried to sketch him like this before, but never could get beyond a few lines without knowing it wouldn’t be what she wanted, what Peter felt like to look at.

She’d watched as he huffed, frustrated, brows furrowed, from her place on his bottom bunk. Looked down at him sitting on the floor with one leg under him and the other stretched on the diagonal, finished her glass of water, and slumped off the bed to sit opposite him on the floor.

“You look good like this.”

The words had come out before she could think twice.

Peter’s head had shot up, eyes wide and cheeks tinged pink, his mouth dropping open like a fish for a few long seconds as he struggled to think of what to say.

“Oh,” was all he managed for a moment, before, “thanks – you – you look–“

It hadn’t been hard to lean forwards, not when Peter’s gaze had fallen to her lips, then back up to her eyes, his breath releasing on a shaky exhale.

His lips were soft, his hands more so where they came to rest on her face and waist.

She’d felt him press in closer, raising her hands to his cheeks, threading her fingertips through the curls of hair beyond his temples. It was easy, and a little terrifying, but MJ had never felt so close to someone before. It had felt as if she could reach out for him, ask for his quickly-thumping heart, and it would be given to her. Peter was warm, and gentle, and for that moment, so was she.

MJ wished she could imagine what capturing that feeling would look like in pencil on paper.

They’d pulled apart, breathless, not long after.

Peter had said “ _u-um, wow_ ” and MJ’s heart had soared a little.

They’d sat side by side for a while, debated a few opinions on _Macbeth_ , kissed softly a couple more times. What was born that afternoon – it was slightly terrifying, but undeniably easy.

Getting to run her hands along Peter’s _washboard abs_ was definitely easy.

Asking him to come with her to the cinema, to the diner a few blocks further from school than they were supposed to go to avoid being spotted, to obscure art galleries and libraries, was harder. But he asked her in return – to join him on walks, to make more meals together, to do more with May. He’d shown her places she was sure hardly anyone knew existed – untended rooftops where plants were somehow growing, the barricaded lift shaft of an art-deco apartment building that led to an unused suite, with 20s posters and mirrors and some furniture still inside, a hotel balcony one-hundred stories high.

Ned looked at them like every day was their wedding day and he was every single wedding guest. MJ mostly rolled her eyes and Peter would just blush and stutter. Most of Midtown Tech didn’t believe they were really going out, and Ned was always eager to show them the _excessive_ amount of questionable evidence that students were compiling on Twitter to prove it – a blurry photo here, an overheard conversation there.

Sometimes MJ saw Peter in his suit, swinging across the city, helping people. Some days it made her smile and filled her with pride, other days it made her stomach drop.

The TV report made her hands tremble uncontrollably.

The fear that she had learnt how to live beside became real, it merged with her body and her mind, it told her; _someday he won’t come home_.

Someday.

His kisses were deep, his breath hot on her face. Her eyes were fixed on him, sometimes warm, sometimes _heated_.

On a dark winter evening, he’d told her he loved her. She’d whispered it back to him two days later, while they looked out over the water of East River. They told it to each other’s skin; quietly, often.

MJ knew he got hurt. MJ knew sometimes Peter wanted to hurt himself. She’d told him she was afraid.

Peter had held her tight in his arms, pressed his nose to her neck, and said “ _I want to live_ ”.

 

 

 

“Where is he?” Michelle asked, storming towards him.

Tony stared at her, his face pale and anxious.

“In surgery.” His expression turned stern – _parental_. “You can’t see him.”

“Why didn’t you call us?” Michelle challenged, going straight for the jugular.

“I didn’t think—“

“No, you _didn’t_. And now May might never trust you again.”

Tony had never seen the young woman so angry, without any of the usual dry humour in her eyes.

“You know how I found out?” She took a step closer, eyes dark. “I saw it on the news, saw him hanging from that guy’s hand, then lying _screaming_ in the street.”

Any colour left in Tony’s face instantly drained away.

“Yeah, some piece of shit reporter got those shots of him screaming in agony in the middle of the road, like an animal waiting to die, and sold it to all the big stations.” Michelle’s voice cracked, her trembling fingers clenching into fists. “And I had to _watch_ that, an _hour_ after it happened, because you couldn’t be bothered to even text any of us.”

Thick silence settled over the room, only Michelle’s panting breaths to be heard. Tony fell into a chair and sunk his head into his hands, heaving air into his lungs. A minute passed before he raised his head again, eyes red and wet.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, looking up at Michelle’s trembling shoulders and tense face. He thought of Pepper, of his therapist. “I didn’t know how much got out to the press, I should’ve checked, I thought he’d just… _be okay_ so I didn’t want to worry May, and then a nurse was— I should have called you all.”

Michelle huffed a breath out of her nose, hands still clenched at her sides.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.” Tony said again.

“Yeah,” Michelle sighed, the fight leaving her all at once. She slumped down into the chair a couple of spaces away from Tony, folding her arms uncomfortably across her chest. “You need to call May. Now.”

Tony nodded.

“And Ned.”

“Yeah I get it, I screwed up,” he let out a humourless laugh.

“Big time.” Michelle added.

Tony took in a deep breath, then stood to leave and make the call he’d been neglecting.

“Stark?”

Michelle’s voice was quiet, all the vitriol that had been in her moments ago replaced by childlike fear.

 _She’s only sixteen, too._ Tony reminded himself, turning back to her.

“He’s gonna be okay, right?”

Tony’s face said it all.

Michelle’s heart dropped.

“They’re the best of the best. The doctors. I made sure of it. Nothing less for Queens’ finest.”

Michelle looked him in the eyes for a long moment.

“Is he going to die?”

Tony could see how much courage it had taken to ask, and couldn’t bring himself to tell her anything but the truth. _Damn teenagers._

“I don’t know.”

Admitting it aloud felt like he was sealing Peter’s fate – but the look in Michelle’s eyes said she’d burn the world before letting anything happen to him.

“He won’t.” She said with finality, nodding to herself in fake assurance. “He always finds a way to come back and annoy me.”

Tony couldn’t help the tiny smile that pulled at his lips.

“And kid, if you ever tell anyone I admitted I was wrong, I’ll have you sent away for a _very_ long time.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Michelle replied as Tony turned and walked out.

And if he saw her quickly wipe away a stray tear, he wasn’t going to mention it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch !
> 
> If there's anything you guys would really like to see in this fic please let me know! Obviously no guarantee I'll be able to fit stuff in but I'd love to hear what you'd like now you've got a sense of the story and the way I write. I LOVE ur comments, i stan u all. 
> 
> \+ I was rewatching parts of hoco the other night and I love the little montage after Peter tells May that he lost the Stark internship, of school and him and Ned finishing the death star it just. It means a lot to me. That whole section of like 8 mins, from the argument with tony all the way to toomes opening the door, is just. So good. And I’m saying this for basically no reason except that it’s where we really see peter and his FAM. Peter obviously feeling :( and ned just has… the loveliest little smile when he hands over the last piece. And MJ. Drawing & doing the :( face. I love her. And: “MAY! I need ur help!”, and polishing hiS CONVERSE wOw, and (quietly, about the tie) “it’s gonna be down by my knees…” And also the little acoustic piece of music (Stark Raving Mad on the OST, if u wana listen). I just love it. ALSO ‘SAVE IT FOR LATER’ IS AN ABSOLUTE FUCKING BOP. Okay we’ve all established I love soft little domestic scenes just let me…. Not Think abt how pete had no idea he’d be dead within a year! :) see u in another 3 months !
> 
> (pleas comment they make me so so hapy)


End file.
